


The Secret Lives of Craftsmen

by Kiko_Murda



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Armor Porn, F/F, Gen, I Drafted This When I Was Drunk, New & Improved!, Witcher Lore, Witchers Chug Respect Women Juice, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiko_Murda/pseuds/Kiko_Murda
Summary: A series of self indulgent vignettes focused on the master armorer of Crow’s Perch.(Now with a second pass from a sober author who has slept!)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Yoana(The Witcher)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 32





	The Secret Lives of Craftsmen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EskelChopChop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EskelChopChop/gifts).



> I laugh in the face of coherent narrative. Happy birthday, Chopchop.

**two**

It was a mistake, coming to Velen for her mastery. She’d thought Undvik a backward shitehole(and it is. Been taken over by an ice giant fer fuck’s sake) but Velen is... Calling Velen a shitehole is an insult to shiteholes.  And here's fool Yoana, stranded, years after getting her papers, playing apprentice to a dwarf  barely  qualified to beat out pans. Most days she can’t trust Fergus to make nails, let alone trust a man’s life to his chain and plate.

Not that she is much concerned for the lives of the local soldiers. Wee men posing as warriors, the lot of them. She glowers over her shoulder at the brigand playing guard. He laughs and praises Fergus’s(her) repair of his gambeson and spreads a little keep gossip while he’s at it.

There’s a witcher lass in Crow’s Perch. A guest of the Bloody Baron himself. Yoana can't help but perk up at the thought.

**five**

When the Nilfgaardian commander commissions Fergus on the heels of Geralt reappearing with master’s tools in hand, she spits out the truth before she chokes to death on it. Geralt hardly bats an eye. It sort of spoils the dramatic revelation of it all. He sneezes in response to her complaint, which is common enough but still bizarre. "Yoana,” he intones. "I don't give a shit _who_ makes my armor, as long as they know what the hell they're doing."

It's such a relief that she has to sit down for a moment after sending him off on her errand. (“Oh, do be a pet, Geralt, and kill that massive, fuck off griffin?  There’s a lad.”) If she laughs a bit  hysterically  to herself, well, Fergus is off ruining a  perfectly  good steel ingot, so he’ll never know.

Then Geralt returns, looking fecking awful.  He insists he isn’t injured and the mess of his face(he tosses out the word ‘toxicity’ as if that were any kind of explanation) is something he’d done to himself. On purpose. She has to sit down again. Geralt sneezes.

Regardless, he’s brought her the acid. Which is an enormous favor on its own. Then, he puts on the armor, trusting its strength on her word alone. (Her eyes don’t dampen at the goodness he shows her, but Freya, it gets close.)  Later, he confesses he was more worried about holding still while under attack than the stopping power of the breast plate.

"Doubt the commander would've  been impressed  if I stepped away by accident."  The way he says it, ignoring decades of well honed survival instinct might be worse than killing a griffin. Which is both insane and understandable.  Yoana is already quite fond of him, but that admission alone assures that no underling will ever repair his kit in her forge( _her_ forge!) It will go  directly  to her hands and no other.

**one**

Yoana is well used to being abandoned by her age mates. _Queer Yoana! She’s got more use for an anvil than a man._ After sixteen summers on this godsforsaken rock, where there was naught to do but chase boys who plow sheep as often as village maids, Yoana is content to be left to her own devices at the forge. Aye, no man would have her, because they knew damn well she’d have no (sheep fucking)man.

Ufhilde and her gobshite friends can take a long walk off a short dock for all she cares. (And she doesn’t. Care, that is. For the record.) If she's mangling the horseshoe she's  been tasked  with, well, what did it matter?  Lettie the Farrier got et by whatever is hiding near Darve t'other day, so's not like there's a pressing need for shoes.

A shadow eclipses the light coming from the doorway, and she looks up.  At first glance, Yoana believes her to be one of the Zerrikanian warrior maidens she’s heard the local skald tell of. Though she has no tattoos to speak of and she wears proper armor instead of pelts. But the armor… the brigandine overskirt falls to the warrior’s booted ankles. It must weigh a stone at least, by the sheer number of rivets. The warrior gives no sign of encumbrance, though, and turns a surprising feline stare on Yoana. “Where is your master, girl? This lot needs seeing to.”

“A witcheress!” she gasps.

The witcheress levels an unimpressed look at her, then reaches up and taps the bear’s head medallion on her chest. “Master Witcher will do  just  fine, if ye can't  be arsed  to get a name,” she growls, voice dark and aggravated.

Whether 'tis the sound or the glare, the hairs on the back of Yoana’s neck stand on end. She’s heard stories about witchers; how they’re more monster than man; how dangerous they are, and cruel. “A-apologies, master. I didn’t mean any-"

“I know you didn’t,” she interrupts with a wave of her hand, face immobile but sheepish all the same. “My temper is short, but that’s none of yer doin’, girl.” She sighs and begins to unstrap her weapons. There are _so many_ more than the two on her back. “Cliodhna is my name.  Just  so’s ya know,” she continues, the deep rumble of her voice so strange to hear from a woman's throat. “It’s only masters have the right to display their medallions. So mind yer manners if ye want to keep my sisters from yer throat.

Yoana means to introduce herself in turn but- “You have sisters?”

“Aye, a few.” Cliodhna’s blank expression empties further. “Even fewer now. Our guild takes men and women alike. You humans are strange about such things.” Her brows furrow. “Less in Skellige, I suppose. I’m used to having bark at yous to get the respect I’m due.” She looks away and attacks the ties at her waist.

This is, Yoana realizes, a roundabout apology for frightening her. She’s not sure how to go about accepting it, so she decides not to ruin it by speaking and nods. The overskirt crunches to the floor of the smithy and Cliodhna sets to work on her gorget.

The loss of the overskirt reveals the surprising swell of the witcher’s hips, well matched to her shapely thighs. Yoana  is distracted  from further assessment by a strange sort of sneezing noise. She blushes as she looks up, realizing she’s well and  truly  caught.  The witcher’s expression is still unreadable, but there is laughter in her voice when she rumbles, “You need a few more summers 'afore that, girl  .” Yoana stares, not at all prepared for that reaction. Is the witcher- Does Cliodhna- “Your master?”  Cliodhna prompts, looking down at the ties holding the maille closed over her attractive, if unfeminine chest.

"Ah, aye. Me da- he  was called  away to attend some business for the jarl. It shouldn’t be long but-“

“The fucker!” Cliodhna spits, tugging the laces free with savage jerk. “I stood before Harald an Tordarroch and let myself  be cheated  not an hour ago.” She all but throws the hauberk on the floor. “I take it back. Tiny men rule even in Skellige.”

**three**

She is...not a witcher. It would seem the baron’s men wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow, nor a witcher from a warrior. She introduces herself as Ciri. The woman, a blonde so pale  as to  be white, hands over her(single) sword to  be sharpened. There is no medallion hidden beneath her shirt. Piercing, yet definitely human eyes watch her as she works. Yoana tries not to feel disappointed.

But... she's a warrior, well enough, and it is comforting to see another of her own kind.  Her own kind being an in-between creature too mannish to be fuckable, but too  womanly  to drink with.  Thoroughly  useless as any sort of companion.

She looks up to ask about Ciri’s travels to see she’s  being watched  with an intent that makes her flush a little.  Perhaps, she amends, a fit enough companion for a rare few.

**seven**

“Master Witcher,” Yoana greets, spotting the medallion over his breast before taking the rest of him in- and there is quite a lot of him to take in. It makes sense, she reckons, for witchers as a whole to be big. Cliodhna had been the most woman you could get in one spot without ending up with two women. Geralt  is built  like a brick shithouse. _This_ witcher makes Geralt look like a circus tumbler.

She gets a closer look at the medallion as he approaches and smiles wide. Another Wolf. One of Geralt's brothers.  She's surprised to see that he reveals far more skin than Geralt, between the short sleeves and complete lack of vambraces. Not even fingers on the gauntlets! Her eyes drift down to his greaves then back up to his spaulders and the spikes on his rerebraces. Unusual. She can't wait to get her hands on that gambeson. “Welcome!”

He blinks and his expression smoothes to nothing, which as far as she can gather, is what surprise looks like on a witcher. He nods and flashes her a brief, closed lipped smile that looks uncomfortable on that poor mouth of his. It's endearing all the same, though. “Eskel,” he rumbles. “And you are the master armorer?”

“Aye, ‘tis me. ‘Less you’re here to collect a gambling debt. Then you want that reprobate.” She tilts her chin toward Fergus.

“Not at all, Master Yoana. Witchers trade the names of smiths like sailors trade the names of brothels. My brother, Geralt, gave me yours.”

She can’t help but give a delighted laugh. “Yoana, please. An apt comparison, I’m sure. Geralt has been one of my very good customers. Will ya be taking over Velen, then, Master Eskel?”

“Just  Eskel. And I’ll stay in the area while there’s work.”

“Bit of advice then: Nilfgaard hasn’t replaced the baron, yet, so Crow’s Perch is still under the garrison captain,” she offers, sotto voce. “I’d stay clear. He wasn’t too sweet on your brother and I don’t think you’ll have much better luck.”

He responds with a soft, snuffling sneeze that screws up his face. Must've gotten a bit of soot up his nose. “My brother has a bad habit of making himself known to the powers that be. I am far wiser than that.”

Yoana decides she rather likes this big, dark Wolf. He's not as taciturn as his brother, but he shares that same solidness she likes so much in Geralt. He ought to be good company for the season.

Genuinely  pleasant pleasantries(a rarity) exchanged, they get to business. As he tugs off his gauntlets, he wears a familiar twist of expression.  She’s seen it on Skelliger shield maidens, and she’s seen it on Nordling whores, and she’s certain she’s worn it her own self a fair few times.

The relief of the harassed finally left the fuck alone.

She’d not recognized it when she’d first seen it on Geralt’s face; but then she’d never before known a man to wear it.

**six**

She knows, in a vague way, about a witcher's lot. Geralt tells her stories that are funny right up until she starts to think about them. She's seen the wide berth the local peasantry pay him when he's conducting business. Still. Seeing is believing. And one fine day, the delightful residents of Crow’s Perch see to it that she gets an eyeful.

One of the newest garrison boys spits at Geralt’s feet and jostles him as he approaches her stall. It was very  nearly  impressive, if only for the sheer temerity of the act. The White Wolf is no small man. He stands tall and broad, armed to the teeth and armored top to toe.  His face, at the time, is a mess of brackish veins and bruised eyes and blood which she finds alarming, and she's seen it before.

It seems a complicated and painful form of suicide, even for Veleners.  Or  perhaps  it's more like the game her fool brothers played as children- taunting the goats into charging them. Though a  fully  roused witcher could do a damn sight worse than wind you and crack a rib.

But Geralt  merely  rolls his eyes and lets the idiot bounce off his immovable bulk, which provokes more spitting and cursing.  This gains the attention of the other guards and Geralt has his hands held out and away in surrender before he’s even  fully  surrounded. He doesn't look worried or even angry. He looks tired. She's about to step out, to intervene, but he catches her eyes and gives the slightest shake of his head.  She doesn’t understand what the fuck _for_ until he’s hauled off to cool his heels in the garrison gaol and there’s not a drop of blood spilled.

**four**

He's  certainly  striking,  just  like Ciri. Yoana hadn’t thought she was lying when she spoke of her father, but she assumed...  There are so many stories of kidnapping and broken hearted families; of children disappearing after a witchman comes to town. It never occurs to her that a witcher might... get a child on someone. The old fashioned way.

But she’s his spitting image, tall and pale and- now, Yoana doesn’t have much of an eye for men, but even she can see Ciri gets her wild beauty from her da. “Geralt of Rivia,” he rasps to Fergus, as he hands over a ruined set of greaves. She thinks of Cliodhna and her sisters. Thinks of fierce, pretty Ciri, trained in a witchers’ keep by none other than this man. She hates that he’s talking to _Fergus_ so much she could scream for the indignity of it all. When the witcher asks after a masterwork, she can’t keep her mouth shut any longer.

**eight**

“I’ve already met the white wolf and the big wolf. Which must make you the bad wolf.”

His lips part, displaying an unnerving grin composed of mismatched teeth. “I see the old women who pass for my brothers warned you about me.”  The third Master Wolf drops his armful onto her counter, spaulders rattling against her tools.

He’s not what she expected. If not for the medallion on his chest, she'd have taken him as a simple soldier of fortune. It's not that he’s a small man. Absurd.  He isn't far shy of six feet, and broad enough at the shoulders to haul his kit with no difficulty, and no mount in evidence, unlike his brothers. But he... well, he’s small. For a witcher, at least.

The elder Wolves identified their youngest brother as a foul tempered shite goblin, and even from this distance she can see that’s right enough. Eskel’d advised her to take the offensive. Geralt counseled keeping him on the back foot as long as possible. When she’d said she was trying to do business with the man, not fight him, they’d both given her the same haunted look.

It seems safest to take their advice.

“Oh, aye. They had a lot to say about your big mouth and tiny prick.”  His expression smoothes to something evaluating and inhuman, and she has  just  enough time to think she’s misjudged when he… sneezes ? But it’s the same not-really-a-sneeze as his brothers, more like a noise a playful puppy might make.

Oh. It’s _laughter._

**ten**

The three of them stand ranged before her counter, dirty, bloody, and  obscenely  proud of themselves. “Family hunt?” she asks finally. She hardly wants to think what requires three master witchers to kill.

Lambert lets loose what she wants to describe as a combination of a whoop and a roar(a howl? she jokes to herself.) Geralt and Eskel both erupt in pleased sneezes. “Something like that,” Geralt concedes, digging something from a hip pouch. He passes it over, and it's only after she holds it in her hands can she discern what it is. It’s a medallion. A Wolf’s head. So caked in gore and dirt and Freya knows what else that it’s near featureless.

“We don’t know how to make them, anymore,” Eskel supplies  softly. Something about air and their postures make it feel as though this is a secret divulged. “But a journeyman witcher has to have one. So we, uh, retrieved this one.” Oh. _Oh._

“Can you clean it?” Geralt rasps, voice tender. She understands then that she’s touching something sacred. “You’re not a jeweler, but-“

“Why the fuck would you give a piece of armor to a jeweler?” she interrupts him. They'll take this medallion to someone else over _her dead body_. “Of course, I can.”

**nine**

There is a rumor going around, has been for the last few years, of a witchman and his apprentice.  A traveling songster tells her of a father-daughter pair, _moonshine hair and matching scars_ _. Lethally  graceful, and aloof._

_Bullshite,_ a fellow Skelliger far from home says. _Graceful? Man was big as a barn. Friendly enough, though. Aye, they did have scars, but the master far worse than she, and his hair was inky dark._

_Nay, nay!_ one of the garrison boys insists. _He was a rangy, angry thing, and she was just  as bad!_

So it seems to Yoana that Ciri must be getting a thorough education, indeed. Her forge  is visited by  witchers several times over those three years, but only by lone Wolves. Which is fine and she  certainly  isn’t hoping for anything else.

**eleven**

She’s smiling at Yoana across the forge. Yoana lets her eyes trail down and she’s pleased to see Ciri in proper armor, this time. Ciri is already shrugging out of her aketon as Yoana approaches. The glimpse of heavy silver chain hidden beneath her shirt twangs  oddly  in Yoana’s chest.

“Master Armorer,” Ciri greets with a devilish smile.

Yoana smiles back. “Witcher.”

fin.


End file.
